


Flight Risk With A Fear Of Falling

by Febricant



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M, utter crack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-15
Updated: 2012-11-15
Packaged: 2017-11-18 17:02:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/563343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Febricant/pseuds/Febricant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Got a curse I cannot lift,” Derek grinds out, jaunty beat completely at odds with his murderous glare.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Flight Risk With A Fear Of Falling

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dirtydirtychai](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dirtydirtychai/gifts).



“Pick up the phone, pick up the phone.” Stiles whips around in his chair to face the window in time to see Derek climbing through it, frowning thunderously.

“Come again?” Stiles shakes his head to clear it, hoping it’s just some late night auditory hallucination. It’s not the _words_  that cause the neck-cracking double take so much as the fact that Derek appears to be... singing.

“All the other kids with their pumped up kicks better run,” Derek warbles, before snapping his teeth shut and flushing red to the roots of his hair.

“I’m gonna need a moment,” Stiles says, before doubling over in a fit of what is definitely hysterical laughter.

-

“Got a curse I cannot lift,” Derek grinds out, jaunty beat completely at odds with his murderous glare.

Doctor Deaton does a much better job of keeping a straight face than Stiles, who’s still holding in the occasional high-pitched giggle.

“That’s a new one,” he says, raising an eyebrow.

“Some nights I stay up cashin’ in my bad luck,” Derek agrees, shaking with rage.

-

“Okay, we are going to have to keep this quiet for now, no matter how vocal your inner diva appears to be,” Stiles tells him, throwing a sleeping bag in his general direction and rummaging for over-sized pyjamas in his dresser. “As deeply entertaining as this has the potential to be, if there’s a witch on the loose we’d better not let her know you’re compromised. ”

Derek had managed about a stanza of ‘Black Magic Woman’ before they’d gotten the picture, although he’s so far failed to come up with a song that explains _why_  he was running around chasing witches all by himself. Trying to get him to write it down had resulted in a string of dots that had, it turned out, been the score to ‘The Sound Of Silence.’ The most helpful thing he’d offered was ‘brown-eyed women in red grenadine,’ which narrowed it down to about half the town.

“I’m still not sure how a silencing spell turned into a musical curse, but then again, maybe this stuff works differently on werewolves?” Stiles is just thinking aloud, not really expecting Derek to respond. “It’ll wear off, right?”

“Rising up to the challenge of our rivals,” Derek chips in, shrugging out of his mud-crusted shirt and avoiding eye contact. It’s deeply unhelpful.

“You have the weirdest taste in music,” Stiles tells him, grinning.

“I don’t give a damn ‘bout my reputation,” Derek mutters, rolling over to face the wall.

-

“Um, I think we really should tell the pack about this, now that it appears to be... more long term,” Stiles mutters, chewing on the end of a pencil and looking up everything he can find about witches. The list is depressingly varied and mostly useless. Nothing at all about silence-turned-musical curses.

Derek shakes his head, adamant.

“No, seriously, they can help. With manpower of the violent variety, at least.”

“There’ll be no one unless that someone is you,” Derek informs him, apparently over his mortification at the things that are coming out of his mouth in the face of possibly losing the respect of his betas.

“Can I at least tell Scott?”

“I intend to be independently blue,” Derek murmurs, note of finality creeping in around the vibrato.

Stiles rolls his eyes and goes back to his computer, throwing his ipod over his shoulder at Derek. “Increase your vocabulary,” he snaps, looking up local wiccan forums.

-

“No, I’m not kidding. Tell them!” Stiles crosses his arms, affronted by the conspicuous lack of faith on display from the pack. Derek stays stubbornly silent, glowering into the middle distance.

“It’s not like you to go along with a prank,” Boyd muses, looking Derek up and down with a speculative expression. “You okay?”

“He’s not okay, he’s cursed!” Stiles exclaims, throwing his hands up. “This would be easier if _someone_  would back me up so we can, oh, I dunno, _solve the problem?_ ”

“I see you driving round town with the girl I love,” Derek snarls venomously, “and I’m like...”

“Don’t finish that one,” Stiles snaps, vindicated.

Erica bites down on her own fist so hard she draws blood. Boyd heaves a long-suffering sigh as Isaac chokes violently on nothing.

“...Whoa,” Scott contributes helpfully, blinking.

“So who knows stuff about witches?” Stiles asks, pulling out his research file.

-

“She ambushed him, then what? Just let him go?” Erica sounds like she’s having a hard time grasping the concept, but Derek is in no position to enlighten her, and besides, Stiles has already done all the heavy lifting on that one. If he never hears ‘there’s a stranger in my bed, there’s a pounding in my head’ out of Derek’s mouth again it’ll be too soon. Derek’s grimace had said all it needed to about that particularly unfortunate rhyme.

“Look, as far as I can tell, he found her trespassing in the territory, she didn’t smell right and he asked her to move on.” Stiles glances at Derek for confirmation, in the form of a terse nod. “Then she panicked, zapped him, knocked him unconscious and skedaddled. Do I have that right?”

Derek nods again, raising an eyebrow that Stiles is forced to interpret as ‘get on with it.’

“Derek thinks it’s a silencing spell gone wrong, Deaton could only hold in his maniacal laughter until we were out of earshot, and Derek is singing his feelings.” Derek huffs, affronted. “Got anything else to add?” Stiles asks him, hoping he’ll take the out.

“She got the power in her hands to shock you like you won’t believe,” Derek warns them, prompting a snort from Scott before he gets himself under control, withering under Stiles’ glare.

“Sorry,” he mutters, going back to the laptop Stiles had handed to him.

“Somebody should be filming this,” Erica adds, “for posterity.”

-

“You still haven’t told me why you were creeping around the woods at the asscrack of dawn. I mean, I know you’re nocturnal, but seriously, climbing in my window at 5am on a Saturday is pretty unusual, even for you.” Next to him in the passenger seat, Derek stares at the road.

“Cheer up, dude, we’ll fix this. I mean, you almost had to cut off your arm a while back, surely this isn’t  _that_  bad.” Stiles is aware that he’s rambling, but the silence is heavy between them, clouding his thoughts.

“Shut up and put your money where your mouth is,” Derek sing-talks, putting a hand slowly over his face shortly after.

“Look, you can stay with me until we find her,” he offers, pulling into his street. “I mean, I know my apartment’s not exactly the Ritz, but you’re welcome, you know that.”

Stiles slams the jeep into its usual parking spot, only catching the look on Derek’s face out of the corner of his eye as he reaches for the handbrake. “Whoa, okay, that’s a face that demands a drink,” Stiles deduces, herding him toward the front door. Derek rolls his eyes  
but follows along easily enough.

Stiles dumps his jacket on the couch and starts for the kitchenette, pulling down the makings of an excellent Irish Coffee. His dad may or may not be missing a bottle of the good stuff, but Stiles is happy to call it a housewarming present, if pressed.

Derek watches him, still and awkward in the middle of the room.

“Feel free to put the radio on,” Stiles calls over his shoulder, pouring a liberal measure into each mug.

“That don’t impress me much,” Derek deadpans, hint of a smile playing around the edges of his mouth.

“You think you’re cool but have ya got the touch?” Stiles retorts, startling a snort out of him. “Yeah, that’s right, two can play at that game. Drink the hell up.” He clinks their mugs together and takes a sip, heading for the bedroom. Derek slips in a moment later, rolling into his sleeping bag without a sound.

-

“Dude, did Derek say how old she was?” Scott’s voice is unnecessarily loud and a little shrill down the tinny line. Stiles puts him on speaker as Derek sits up, awake in a flash.

“Only the good die young,” he blurts, wincing. Stiles tries not to judge him.

“Deaton says he’s found her,” Scott pauses, choosing his words carefully. “Try not to be too mean?”

“Fuck all you gun toting hip gangster wannabes,” Derek snarls, putting on his jacket over his borrowed shirt and looking impatiently at Stiles as he alternates between trying to find his keys and trying to put on pants.

They run out the front door together, heading for the jeep.

“So, Tool, huh?”

“Shut up and drive,” Derek says, smirking.

“How long have you been sitting on that one?” Stiles asks, tearing down the street.

-

The witch is about fifteen, and she looks petrified. It kind of takes the wind out of his sails, to be honest. Stiles knows, academically, that he was that young once, but he can’t quite remember if he ever looked this much like a rabbit in the headlights.

“Oh god, please don’t kill me,” she squeaks, “I’m like, _so_  sorry.”

Derek maintains an aura of murderous rage, prompting Stiles to gently lay a well-telegraphed hand on his shoulder. The girl looks about ready to burst into tears.

“This is not quite the foe I was imagining when you implied bolts of lightning from her fingertips,” he says, kneading a little at the rock-hard tension under his palm. “At the very least I was expecting more your garden-variety hag type.” Derek’s low, rumbling growl does not abate.

“Sabrina here is a late bloomer,” Doctor Deaton says, projecting calm. “She was just practicing and you startled her.”

“I said hey, girl with one eye,” Derek starts, words forming low in his throat, obviously aching to get the part about cutting out hearts.

“As you can see,” Stiles butts in, staying in contact with Derek in case he decides to lunge, “your little excursion has had some unfortunate side effects.”

Sabrina stares at them before letting out a choked little giggle, edging towards hysteria. Deaton shoos them out of his office with a sigh.

-

“So we just... what? Wait it out?” Stiles is really hoping Deaton’s fucking with them, but it’s hard to tell. The man takes zen to a new level, especially when playing elaborate, cryptic jokes.

“Her magic, while naturally quite powerful, isn’t focused. If you’re lucky, it should wear off by the end of the month. If you continue to have a problem, come back and see me.” With that, he smiles beatifically and shuts the door in their faces.

“Well, fuck,” Stiles says, staring at the ‘closed’ sign. “How do you feel about pizza?”

“Oh, she looks so good,” Derek mutters, looking at his feet.

“Nice,” says Stiles. “Way to mix it up, genre-wise. Pepperoni?”

Derek snorts, nodding.

-

A week later, Derek is still sleeping on his floor.

There’s an extra toothbrush in the tiny bathroom and shirts that aren’t his in the hamper and they don’t talk about it.

Or well, Stiles doesn’t try and pry a cryptic lyric out of Derek about it, figuring if he wants to hang around until he’s not cursed anymore, who is Stiles to kick him out? It’s not like he takes up a whole lot of space, despite his bulk, and he’s bought at least one round of groceries.

The Camaro appears on his block and doesn’t go away.

Stiles goes to class, comes home, orders takeout.

“I was thinking Die Hard,” he muses, washing a dish and handing it to Derek to dry. “Care to weigh in?”

“A red solo cup is the best receptacle for barbeques, tailgates, fairs and festivals,” Derek says, putting the cutlery away.

“I’m not old enough to buy beer until next month,” Stiles reminds him. Derek rolls his eyes and points at the fridge. “You’re the best cursed roommate ever,” he tells him, grabbing a couple of bottles and heading for the couch.

-

“I dunno, he seems okay, it’s just not wearing off.” Boyd sighs heavily on the other end of the phone and Stiles looks around, just to make doubly sure that Derek is nowhere in earshot. The Camaro’s not parked nearby when he sneaks a look out the window, so he takes that as confirmation. “Has he been to any meetings?”

“Mostly he just stands in the corner and glares,” Boyd says wryly.

“Pssht, like you’d even notice the difference,” Stiles plays along, gratified by Boyd’s laugh. “Gotta go, class in half an hour.”

“Call me as soon as there’s a change,” Boyd insists, hanging up. Stiles pockets his phone and runs out the door, planning dinner for when he gets home. Derek doesn’t like celery or cauliflower, but will eat eggplant like it’s going out of style. Stiles resolutely doesn’t read into it.

He finally gets home after the world’s most boring history lecture to find Derek already there, thumbing through one of Stiles’ psychology textbooks.

“Developing an interest in academics?” he asks, mostly to see if he can find a lyric that matches up. Derek raises an eyebrow and folds a corner of the page, tossing it at Stiles. He cracks it open and takes a look. “You definitely do not have aphasia.”

Derek gestures in a way that Stiles takes to mean his research is mostly based in boredom and frustration.

“Passes the time, I guess,” he says, tossing it back. “Eggplant casserole okay for dinner?”

“Livin’ in a movie scene, puking American dreams,” Derek sings, resigned.

“Getting a little lazy, there. Not sure how I feel about you referencing puking in relation to my cooking.”

Derek throws the textbook at his head, this time. Stiles ducks, grinning.

-

A few days later, Stiles decides that the ban on music in the apartment is getting out of hand. There’s no reason for Derek’s deep-seated musical rage to stop _Stiles_  from dancing around in his underwear, and besides, he’d shot out the door at sunrise, not even so much as a grumbled note in explanation.

Stiles is too busy singing ‘Video Killed The Radio Star’ at the top of his lungs and trying not to drop last night’s dishes while executing a complicated shimmy to register the door closing, but he _does_  hear Derek’s sharp intake of breath as the song fades out.

“Uh, hi,” he says, elbow deep in suds and decidedly under-clothed.

“Laylaaaa,” Derek croaks, voice unsteady.

“What?” Stiles asks, mystified.

Derek claps a hand over his mouth and flees.

“What the fuck just happened?” Stiles asks himself, as ‘500 Miles’ starts up in the background. It’s not until later, as he’s pulling on a t-shirt for class, that he hears himself absently singing ‘...you got me on my knees, Layla,’ mostly off-key.

“Oh, shit,” he mutters, digging out his keys.

-

Stiles pulls up outside Derek’s house about an hour later, no closer to deciding how he’s going to play this but determined to at least, uh, sing about it.

He drums his fingers on the steering wheel for longer than he’s proud of, but eventually decides, fuck it, he’s here now. He might as well hash it out with Derek. It’s funny, how quickly he’s gotten used to him being around, smirking sardonically at him while he rushes to class, trying to pretend he isn’t laughing at whatever ridiculous show is on TV, demolishing the last spring roll.

Derek just kind of _fits_ , occupying a spot in his life he hadn’t ever thought of as vacant.

Stiles gets out of the jeep, takes a fortifying breath and knocks.

No response.

“I can see your car!” he yells up at the windows, as loudly as possible. Derek still doesn’t appear, but damned if Stiles is going to let him do this, hide until the awkwardness blows over. He’s been letting his awkwardness melt in with Stiles’ own peculiar brand of oddity for weeks and Stiles _doesn’t want him to stop_.

“Please don’t make me do this!” he continues, last resort forming in his mind. “Seriously, there’ll be regrets!” He pounds on the door one more time, without much hope, before stepping back.

“Okay,” he mutters to himself, “this is happening,” before he tilts his head back and belts “In touch with the ground, I'm on the hunt I'm after you! Smell like I sound, I'm lost in a crowd, and I'm hungry like the wooolllllllllf!” with all the force he can muster.

Stiles is about to look up the lyrics for the next verse if he has to when Derek opens the door and yanks him inside, looking not a little bit frayed around the edges.

“...It’s not like you have neighbors for me to offend?” Stiles tries, meeting his eyes. Derek ducks his head, chest heaving, hand still fisted in the fabric of Stiles’ shirt. “Hey, take a deep breath, okay? Let’s talk about it.” He pauses. “Sorry.”

“Don’t go wasting your emotion,” Derek forces out, looking anywhere but at Stiles.

“You know what the next line of that is, right?” Stiles feels the need to point out, reaching for him. Derek nods minutely, teeth bared. “Okay then, so long as we’re clear,” Stiles says, pulling him up for a kiss.

Derek makes a noise deep in his chest like he’s being cracked open and Stiles takes it, burying his hands in Derek’s hair and meeting him with lips and teeth and shared breath. They break apart, gasping. Stiles lets his head fall back against the door with an exhilarated laugh, refusing to let go.

“My bed’s a lot more comfortable than my floor,” he tells him. “Speaking of which?”

Derek pulls him up the stairs with the force of weeks of pent-up frustration. Stiles rolls with it, letting him take the lead.

-

A few days later, Stiles’ phone rings at an ungodly hour. “Have you fixed him yet?” Erica demands.

“Erica’s on the phone!” Stiles yells back towards the bedroom. He can just about see Derek’s bed head against the pillow, limbs loose with sleep.

“Tell her to call back later,” Derek grumbles, turning over.

“Oh my god!” Erica shrieks. Stiles holds the phone away from his ear with a grimace and hangs up.

 

**Author's Note:**

> ENDLESS thanks to Rachel, Marie and especially Gyzym for plot points, LAYLAAA and listening to me flail, and to DirtyDirtyChai for giving me the idea in the first place.
> 
> I have also recorded a podfic of this, and yes, there is singing. Can be found [here.](https://www.dropbox.com/sh/l4yh2migqlwcdrs/oKRLdKaFRl)
> 
> Track List:
> 
> Pick Up The Phone - Dragonette  
> Pumped Up Kicks - Foster The People  
> Wolf Like Me - TV On The Radio  
> Some Nights - fun.  
> Black Magic Woman - Santana  
> The Sound Of Silence - Simon And Garfunkel  
> Last Friday Night - Katy Perry  
> Brown Eyed Women - The Grateful Dead  
> Eye Of The Tiger - Survivor  
> Bad Reputation - Joan Jett  
> Love Me Or Leave Me - Nina Simone  
> Fuck You - Ceelo  
> Electric Feel - MGMT  
> Waking Up In Vegas - Katy Perry  
> That Don't Impress Me Much - Shania Twain  
> Only The Good Die Young - Billy Joel  
> Aenima - Tool  
> Shut Up And Drive - Rihanna  
> Girl With One Eye - Florence And The Machine  
> Gloria - Patti Smith  
> Red Solo Cup - Toby Keith  
> Hollywood - Marina And The Diamonds  
> Video Killed the Radio Star - The Buggles  
> Layla - Derek And The Dominos  
> 500 Miles - The Proclaimers  
> Hungry Like The Wolf - Duran Duran  
> Lay All Your Love On Me - ABBA
> 
>  
> 
> **Come say hello on[my tumblr!](http://www.febricant.tumblr.com)**


End file.
